


the beams of our house are cedar

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Feminization, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Panty Kink, Roleplay, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: While they're still cementing the bunker as theirs, Dean remembers something he used to play with, when he was younger. He decides to give Sam a surprise, whenever he gets home.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: fic for fire relief [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Comments: 42
Kudos: 162





	the beams of our house are cedar

**Author's Note:**

> Written for wildfire relief.

When Dean leaves the store he's almost jittery. It's not like he'll see anyone he knows—he never knows anyone, anywhere he goes—but even so he kinda flinches when a woman walks past and her eyes slide over his face. Like she'll know exactly what's in the discreet black bag, what he bought with a credit card he'll never use again, what he's half-chubbed over, just thinking about. Aw, jeez. He actually is—he holds the bag in front of himself, walks down the street to the meter where he left the car, a half-block down. He wasn't exactly intending to stop in, but he'd seen the place out of the corner of his eye as he was hitting that pawn shop Carlos had told them about, and after he'd concluded his business with Squirrelly Dan the Pawn Shop Man, he'd stowed away the dumb cursed dagger in the lockbox in the trunk and then stood there jangling his keys in his palm, and then headed down the sidewalk, just to—look. It couldn't hurt to look, could it? He was just an interested customer. And then the boy behind the counter, wearing mascara so thick Dean was surprised he could keep his eyes open and sparkly pink nail polish and a grin that could cut diamonds, he'd said, _oh, honey, have I got the thing for you_ , and then—here Dean was, stuffing his bag into the trunk next to the cursebox with his ears bright red, knowing it was three hundred miles until he'd get to try it, because three hundred miles away was—home.

Home. It's unfamiliar still, to think about. Not like there was a deed or anything, but the bunker was theirs, fair and square. A legacy, passed down, and maybe they'd only been there a few weeks but Dean already sort of loved it. Lights that came on reliably, and water in the shower that ran hot, and a kitchen that was more than a mini-fridge and a hotplate, and bedrooms they could claim, sheets he knew were clean, a pillow he'd picked out himself. Somewhere—safe, and theirs, and where he knew when he came back there'd be Sam, waiting.

That part—that's still kind of unfamiliar, too, but there's a peace between them, now, and Dean's determined to keep it, after these past shitty months. Sam wasn't great but Dean wasn't exactly helping, on edge as he was, and he only just barely stopped waking up in the night expecting a ghoul at his throat, or for the light on the other side of his eyes to be that unchanging soiled grey. But they'd—talked, sort of. They'd looked at each other and known what was true, what for Dean had always been true: that what mattered was them, and not much else. And, after that, they'd made up, and in fact had kissed and made up, and Dean was on a very crowded highway driving very fast and didn't have the attention to spare to dwell on that happy memory but it was a good one—after that big (fake) battle with Charlie, getting drunk and then getting drunker and crashing into the motel and Sam pushing him up against a wall and finding out that larping costumes came off a lot harder than their usual jeans and flannel, but that was okay, because it turned out that with enough determination on both sides they still managed it, just fine.

And when they woke up—when Dean woke up, anyway—Sam was still on the bed, his hair still sloppily pulled into that dumb ponytail, looking at Dean. Not smiling, but with his eyes soft, which with Sam in a good mood meant—more, really, than Dean knew how to say, or how to even think about, it made his chest and head so tight and full. _Creeper_ , he'd said, croaking. The hangover was still waiting to hit but Sammy rolled his eyes and got up and said he'd go get coffee, and no matter how the rest of the day went, it was a banner one, as far as Dean was concerned, and always, always would be.

About three hours for three hundred miles, because once out of Colorado it was easy to angle the Impala onto the arrow-straight 36 and really let her rip. Just after five in the afternoon when Dean makes it to the bunker, and he idles in front of the big abandoned plant for a second, just looking, before he pulls around to the hidden doors, and backs his baby slowly down the curved ramp, and parks her right in the center of the garage, pride of place, gleaming and gorgeous. Taking his time, a little. _Stalling_ , says another part of his head, and he tells that part to shut up, but. Okay. Yeah. Stalling, a little. He's got the cursebox in the trunk but he's also got the bag, and he's—not shy, that's for sure, but some stuff isn't—he doesn't really know how to—

Whatever. Anyway: it turns out that when he comes inside, cursebox under one arm and very discreet black bag dangling from the other, when he shouts out, "Honey, I'm home!" in his best Desi, no one responds. He chews the inside of his lip, puts the box on the closer table in the library, stashes the bag in his room. A quick walk through the bunker—Sam's room, empty—the gym and shower room and the latest archive room Sam's been clearing out, empty—and he's not exactly nervous but it's a relief anyway when he comes into the kitchen and there's a folded note, obvious on the table, and when he opens it there's Sam's dumb handwriting saying _Saw a note in the folders about some buried artifacts in Tulsa. I'll be back tonight. –S._

S. Like anyone else is leaving Dean notes. He flicks the note back onto the table and is kinda annoyed—so, he was in Boulder, but Sam could've waited so they could go together—or texted, even—but, then again, maybe this works. He stares at (through) the bulletin board they haven't yet started actually using, thinking. Yeah—yeah, maybe this works. It's getting toward six o'clock, and _tonight_ isn't all that far away, and—well, they've been here a few weeks, but they haven't really… made the bunker all the way into home, Dean's thinking. Yeah. Okay. He flips open his phone, texts: _Pick up beer on your way back_ , and there's a pause before he gets, _OK,_ and nothing else, and—okay. Time to do a little prep, for when Sammy comes home.

*

Dinner's lasagna, because of how Dean recently discovered with internet access and a full kitchen and abrupt time on his hands that it was easy as hell to make, and it made Sam make happy sounds through a full mouth, which even if it was for other reasons meant nothing but good things to Dean's hindbrain. Anyway, the only fast food around here was over in Smith Center, and Dean would eat cold fries for all three meals if he had to but they had good gas burners here and knives that were almost as sharp as the ones he hunted with, and after all, why not? He knocks the pan together and shoves it into the oven for an hour. He doesn't know exactly when Sam's going to get home but he's got an idea, itching in the back of his head, and he figures he's got an hour at least, and then after that—well, lasagna reheated well, if Sam liked the surprise that'd be waiting for him.

They've been exploring the bunker a lot, these past weeks. Sam had fallen on the library like a starving man and Dean was happy to leave him to it, especially if it meant he wouldn't be asked to help catalogue something like _Grimsby's Encyclopedia of Grim Bones, vol. 1-32_. He'd spent most of his own time poking around the various rooms. Storerooms and archives and workrooms, oh my, and all the bedrooms that they'd hardly made a dent in, and of course the shower room, and the big bathroom that was attached behind the infirmary, for some reason. It's that last he heads for now, and runs a steaming-hot bath, enough to fog up the mirror over on the wall. Just as well, he doesn't need to look at himself right now.

He lets himself soak for a while. The shower's his preference, ninety percent of the time, but when he's by himself—there was this oil in a crystal-stoppered bottle in the cabinet he'd discovered on their fifth night here, and it smelled like orange peel and kind of like clove, and when he'd dumped an ounce into the bath it made his skin so soft he'd spent most of the night petting his own chest. The bunker was full of crap like that. There was an old-fashioned straight razor that never seemed to go dull, and flowery soap that made his mind so calm he didn't have nightmares, and one time when he was sure Sam was out on one of those crazy-long runs he'd started running, Dean discovered a bubble bath solution that never seemed to un-bubble, and he'd had a hell of a time getting it all to wash away down the drain, but hell. After thirty-plus years he'd earned a little bit of the soft life, he thought. Leave it to some ancient dead geeks to finally give it to him.

After his toes have thoroughly pruned he takes up the straight razor. It's been a long, long time since he shaved his legs, but turns out he's still got the trick for it. The hair's gone soft, in the orange-scented water, and when he's totally smooth from ankle to knee he licks his lips and then keeps going—over his thighs, where there's hardly any hair to start with, and then—careful, careful—up north, around his junk, cleaning up where he's always kept pretty trimmed to start with. It's soft, when he's done—silky—and he leaves the razor on the table by the bath and just feels it, for a second, checking for stray hair. He's getting pink, he knows. More than just the heat from the water. Jesus, this feels—he forgot, how—wild it made him, in his guts. Like smiling in front of a suspicious cop knowing he had five illegal weapons hidden on him. Like bargaining down a demon, knowing that the only thing in his hand was pocket twos.

Still, a lot of damage could be done with pocket twos. He kneels up, the water displacing around him with a surge, and reaches for that same orange-clove oil, endlessly slippery and soft. Another little treat he'd discovered. How it didn't sting, in places where sting really counted—how it just stayed slick, when that was wanted. He bends forward, his fingers coated, and when he touches himself he can hardly feel the difference in heat between his body and the water but it's—ah—yeah. He works the oil deep, ignoring anything else his body wants for now, and—fu- _uck_ he can't wait for Sam to get home.

Dry, and the bath stuff neatened away. He walks in his towel from the bathroom to his bedroom, and the slick inside is distracting enough that he runs into the doorway a little when he gets there. Still no sound of Sam, which means there's still time. He drops the towel, the bunker's ever-cool air a little chilly on his moist skin, and upends the bag on the bed, and feels his face get hot, even though he's the only person in a five-mile radius who even knows what it means.

The store was kinda classy, for that part of town. Boulder. It smelled like weed, because most places in Colorado did anymore, but when he came in there was an honest-to-god bell that jingled, and that boy at the counter who gave that whipcrack smile, and he'd picked up some lube and boggled a little at the size of the plugs and dildos they sold but his eye kept getting dragged to the reason he'd come in, and the boy had appeared beside him in a slightly shimmery (if dank) way and said, _need any help with your size, sir?_ Like he could tell. Maybe he could. Dean wasn't exactly being subtle, mouth dry and his attention pinned on—lace.

He'd ended up with some lace. He'd ended up with silk and satin, too, and he'd nearly gone for the garters but had balked, last minute, and the boy (mascara and all) seemed to see that was maybe a bit much and let him go with just the three pairs, in just his size. There'd been a measuring tape. He rubs the corner of his mouth and lays them out on the bed, in a row, trying to decide. How to let Sam see.

He'd done this twice before. Once for Rhonda, back then, which hardly counted. He was nineteen and he'd have done anything, if it got him what her filthy grin had promised. The second time—when he'd done it right—that club, in New Orleans—it had been—different. Different and good and he'd kept them on the whole time, and Jamal had let him keep the pair he was wearing when he left, and he wore them through a seven-hour drive with the silk a little too tight on his dick until he got to the motel and carefully peeled them off and put them into his Burger King bag with the rest of the trash, and they went into the dumpster, and when Dad showed up a few hours later he was none the wiser. No one ever had been. Except Rhonda, and Jamal, and a handful of those men whose names he never got, and now, finally, Sammy. A little more cosplay, like playing with Charlie, Dean had thought, while the boy with the pretty nail polish rang up his purchase. A little more fun, along with all that promised.

He chooses the purple pair, so dark they almost look black in the lamplight until the fabric's turned just right. They fit—of course, they fit—and the skim up his bare thighs feels incredible. They're tight but they stretch, and they're plain enough in front that they almost, almost, don't look like what they are. He runs his fingers under the elastic, making sure it settles right. Then, because it's cold in here and he's still Dean Winchester, he digs through his clean laundry until he finds that Zeppelin shirt he likes, and tugs that on too, and goes with his head high and his cheeks flaming to check on the lasagna, and to wait for Sammy to come home.

*

An hour passes. The lasagna's getting cold, under its tinfoil on the kitchen island. Dean's getting cold, too, with his hairless legs and his apparently pointlessly sexy lounging, and he texts Sam, again. _ETA?_

Another pause, this one ten minutes long—enough time for Dean to pour a whiskey from the stash in the kitchen shelves, and start to get worried. _Sorry,_ Sam says, via SMS. _Got held up. Should be an hour?_

Another hour. Well, shit. _Don't forget the beer_ , Dean texts back, because they are out—they are now, at least, since he killed the last three bottles while he was waiting, and then he tosses his phone onto the island and props his fists on his hips, looking at the lasagna. Damn. Well—

*

He retires to Sam's room, and watches an episode of Frasier on Sam's brand-new TV while eating a square of lasagna. It's damn good, if he says so himself. Then he brushes his teeth free of sausage bits and oregano, and leaves his plate in the sink, and checks the clock on the wall. He sucks the inside of his cheek, and pours himself another whiskey, and drinks it. Then he pours himself a third whiskey, and goes exploring.

The main floor is where most of the bedrooms are, and most of the archives. Down a level, and there's a room with an old weird… computer bank thing, and a room with helpfully labelled pipes and wires and lights and colorful buttons, and then there's a hallway with yet more rooms, which they haven't really had the time to get into. Dean's half-naked in bare feet with a stomach made warm with good food and actually quite a bit of booze, now that he's counting it up, and he's feeling okay, other than how Sam's not here, so. Exploring.

Bedrooms. How many people could live here, he wonders? Most of the rooms have full mattresses on the same narrow frames that he and Sam have claimed, but two can fit in a squeeze. He's looking forward to testing that to the limits. This bedroom—a ceiling fan like Sam has, and a wardrobe with magically dust-free suits hung on neat maple hangers, and a letter folded on the desk _from your loving Mildred_. Mildred might've come here, might've set up house with her beau. Could've been nice, Dean thinks, and realizes a little late that the not-very-full glass in his hand is making him goofy. He refolds the letter, puts it back in place, and moves on. This bedroom: empty. The next: suits, again, and a very entertaining collection of Mr. Rogers sweaters that could actually come in handy, if they ever have to pretext as a couple of absolute dorks. The next—

Oh, now. That's interesting. A bed, a lamp, a desk. Standard. Less standard: a bottle of perfume, next to the fountain pen and the cute little revolver. Way less standard: a wardrobe, but this one full of…

"Oh, progressive," he says, to himself, flipping through the clothes. A lady of letters? Maybe. A maid, maybe more likely, but then again the gun on the desk. He pulls out a tweedy ladies' jacket, thick wool and a sad kind of brown, and raises his eyebrows. Not a weedy little girl, but a _woman_ , and he looks through the hangers with more interest. A black pantsuit, which from his hazy remembering of history made it pretty damn progressive indeed, but then—"Oh, hello," he says, out loud again—maybe to the ghost of whatever lady owned this stuff—but that's— _nice_ , is the only thing he can think, pulling it out and swirling it into the light. Fancy. His glass seems to be empty. He leaves it on the desk and holds the hanger at arms-length, squinting.

*

When the front door finally creaks open, Dean's on his back on his preferred table in the library. The cursebox is relegated to a chair; his heels are braced on the edge of the table, mostly because he realized his lower back was killing him with his legs dangling over the side; he's playing Snake, on his phone, and doing good enough that he's got to concentrate to make sure the little guy doesn't accidentally bite his own tail. It's happened twice already and it's bumming him out.

But—the door creaked. He frowns, and lifts up on his elbows. There's a sad beep from his phone. "Hey, I'm back," Sam's calling, from somewhere, and Dean's head is swimming maybe the littlest bit but he feels like this is important. "Sorry, ran into some trouble."

"Trouble," Dean says, sitting up entirely and feeling more sober, and that's when Sam hits the bottom of the stairs with a duffle over his shoulder, and flips his hair out of his eyes to look across the map room, and stops in his tracks, and Sam says, "Uh."

"What trouble?" Dean says—demands, maybe—and he's been trying not to sound like that but he might've had, you know, most of the bottle of whiskey, and Sammy was out all day and didn't tell him anything about any trouble, and Sam says, ignoring him entirely and staring, "What—what are you—?"

Dean looks at the clock and frowns, because it's past ten and Sam was supposed to be—and then that little bit of sober brain that's been dragging itself back to the surface past hours of waiting and really quite a lot of alcohol indeed manages to open its little mouth and shout _PLAN_ and Dean blinks, and looks down, and remembers: plan. Oh, damn it.

"Dean?" Sam says, carefully this time. He dumps the duffel on the map table and takes a few steps closer, to the stairs up to the library, where Dean's sitting like he was supposed to be, hours ago, but it's all screwed up, because he—aw, fuck.

"What trouble? What happened?" Dean says, muscling ahead. Some stuff's more important.

Sam blinks at him and Dean, searching him all over, doesn't see any injuries or misery or blood. "Artifact had a ghost attached," he says, after a few seconds. Dean doesn't know what happens to his face but Sam holds up a hand. "No big deal. I handled it." Dean guesses he did—he's standing here, and in one piece—but he's still staring, from Dean's bare feet, and upwards, until he meets Dean's look with some raised eyebrows and, Dean notices through a lot more soberness indeed, a very careful lack of judgment. "Dean," he says, again.

Dean licks his lips. Lack of judgment is good to go with, but it's not—ideal. "Uh," he says, like a dumbass, and then slips off the table, getting his feet on the ground. "Hey, go—back out. Outside, or—or into the hall or something, okay? Give me five minutes."

"What?" Sam says, bewildered, and Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Five minutes! C'mon, you were gone all day, five won't kill you," and Sam frowns and says, "Oh—kay?" and Dean trots down to the kitchen in his bare feet and cranks the oven to 275 and shoves the lasagna back in to warm, and swishes his mouth with water because, jesus, how much did he drink?, and he knows his cheeks are getting hot because he can friggin' feel it but there was a plan—a plan, okay, and no matter what dumb real-life things get in the way he's going to try to make it work, and he trots back through the cold hall to the library and finds the good crystal glasses and the nice decanter with the _good_ scotch, and pours two measures, and brings them back to the table he was sitting on in the first place, and hops up and crosses his legs like he never, ever does—fuck, where are your _balls_ supposed to go—and then licks his lips until they shine, and feels like a fucking dumbass, and says, "Okay," and Sam—actually listening, for friggin' once—steps out of the hall down to the garage, cautious and still kinda frowning, and Dean takes a deep breath and says, "Welcome home, Sammy."

Sam comes up the steps into the library, the warm light hitting him all over like it always does. Blue-and-red plaid today, and those jeans that seriously fit, and he drags his hand through his hair but when Dean holds out one of the glasses Sam takes it, and to his credit doesn't say a damn thing about how Dean's face is flaming. "Thanks," he says, still a little reserved.

Dean leans on one hand, rests his own glass on his knee. "How was your day?" he says. He thought of a script, in the bath earlier. Hell if he knows how he's even remembered it.

Sam, to his extreme, outstanding credit, goes along. "Good," he says, and sips at the scotch. His lips pull back a little at the sting—dry since yesterday, Dean bets. "I picked up some stuff from the records, so we can get them back in the archives where they belong. What about you?" he says, and then pauses, looking Dean up and down again. "How—how was your day?"

"Fine," Dean says, and licks his lips again even if they don't need it. Sam's eyes drop there, at least. He takes a breath, trying to steady it. "Your dinner's warming up. Figure you'll need it, after working so hard."

It sounds—kind of dumb. Okay, a lot dumb. Sam's eyebrows are so high it looks like his forehead's trying to retreat into his hairline. "Thanks," Sam says, trying, and then the air goes out of him, and he steps in close enough that he can touch Dean's knee, through the fabric. "Dean, what the _hell_."

"Nevermind," Dean says. Sam broke it, of course. It was dumb and he should've—"Don't worry about it, man—hey, there's lasagna in the oven, okay, if you want—I'm just gonna—"

Only Sam's frowning again, really this time and not like he's just confused, and he stops Dean from jumping off the table by virtue of just crowding in close enough that he's between Dean's knees, and he puts down his glass and gets both hands on Dean's thighs, and Dean stops and bites his lips between his teeth. Sam looks at him, annoyingly close, and says, "Dean," and Dean says, " _Sam_ ," just to be annoying back, but Sam's had him beat for like three decades on the annoying-but-patient front, and so all Dean has left is to sigh gustily and lean back on his hands like he doesn't give a shit and say, arch, "What, you don't like it?" and Sam says—Sam says—

"I didn't say that," Sam says, with a certain kind of voice.

Dean blinks. Sam looks back and forth between his eyes, close, and then leans back. "What are you wearing?" Sam says, like he's just interested.

"You blind?" Dean says. He shifts his weight back a few inches, so Sam's hands slide down his thighs to his knees, and shrugs. "It's a skirt."

The corners of Sam's mouth tip up, just a little. Dean can _feel_ how friggin' hot his face is. Damn it. Sam says, "I can see that," kind of dry, and—yeah. Dean's sure he can.

What was he _thinking?_ Problem is that he wasn't. Problem is—problem _was_ —that Sam was late, and Dean was caught up in horny daydreams and wistful hope and hot memory and a hell of a lot of under-twenty-dollar hooch, and he'd been in that long-dead-woman's bedroom and he'd opened up her wardrobe and found a—well, kind of frumpy, honestly—but it was a _skirt_ , from a woman whose waist had been thick enough that when Dean slipped the damn thing on it mostly fit. Full and swirling just below the knee and a heavy forest-green silky material that felt like absolute heaven against his legs, and he'd thought—housewife—and he'd thought—Sam, seeing him, and wanting—

Dean can't tell what Sam wants, right now, when normally he's pretty good at it. His phone beeps again, asking if he wants to retry at the Snake game, and he slaps a hand down on it to shut it up. Sam's eyes hardly waver from his face. "What does it feel like?" Sam says, and he actually sounds sort of curious.

Dean shrugs. Sam's eyes narrow, minutely, and he steps back, and lets the thick fabric smooth down under his hands as he goes. He steps back again and looks—really looking—and Dean swallows and is aware of himself, in ways he usually—isn't. His body—he knows it's fine, knows it's good enough, knows that from when he was a teenager to roughly now Sam wanted it, at least enough to kiss him and suck him and fuck him, and that was pretty much all Dean needed to know, more or less. Other people—demons—monsters—have said more, on the subject, but it was what Sam wanted that mattered, and Dean didn't consider his looks much more than that, anymore. Right now, though, he's aware of it, of them: how he didn't shave his face and so it's a two-day beard, and his lips might be wet but they're kind of chapped, too, and how he's in that old Zep shirt from Target that's soft as hell but kinda shapeless, and his—skirt—swirling out from his waist—

"C'mere," Sam says, holding out a hand, and Dean frowns at it but takes it, and when Sam tugs he slides off the table again, and the skirt swirls down around his knees. Sam looks down at it, then up at his face, and his other hand finds Dean's hip under the thick fabric and slides up, under his t-shirt, to where the hemline meets bare skin. "You were waiting for me, huh?"

That was—oh. "Yeah," Dean says, kinda brainless, because just like Sam's known his body since he was a teenager, Dean's known something else, and it's when that switch flips, in Sam. Where weirdly celibate monk flips over into—"Yeah," Dean says, breathier, and watches Sam's pupils expand, his eyes flicking down over Dean's chest and skirt and his bare feet, and Dean licks his lips and sees Sam see that, too, and when Dean reaches, when he gets a handful of Sam's flannel and tugs, Sam steps in, and Sam dips his head, and Sam—oh—kisses him, what Dean's been missing, all day and all the past day and all the last week, pretty much, with Sam buried in his cataloging and Dean running down a cursed object for friggin' Carlos, when he could've been here, at home, with his brother.

Sam's mouth—god, the taste of the scotch and the taste of—what? Spit, and a day of quick food and driving and working, and his own taste. Sam licks into him and Dean bends back easy for it, hitching his arm around Sam's neck, letting Sam hold his weight around the waist, like he really is some kind of stay-at-home wifey, waiting for the man of the house to come home. Fuck—Sam's tongue, fucking in against his—and Dean tugs back and pants against Sam's face, feeling the grip there at his waistband—remembering, there was a way he wanted to play this, and thinking—maybe, maybe—now Sam might play. Maybe.

"Been waiting for you," he says, and Sam clutches his ribs. He reaches behind himself and nearly crashes the whiskey onto the floor before his fingers find the right edges of one of the crystal glasses, and he holds it up between them. "Have a drink, honey."

Blood prickles in his cheeks, in his lips. He feels bright red from hairline to throat, but Sam looks at him with his mouth parted and then takes the glass from his hand, and drains it in a quick hot gulp. He puts the glass back on the table behind Dean with a clink, and Dean swallows and presses his hands against Sam's chest, and pushes, and angles, and gets Sam over there into the alcove in an economy of steps, his toes bumping against Sam's boots. A push and Sam sits, in the big leather armchair, and there's color high in his cheeks too, at least, so Dean's not alone.

He steps in between Sam's spread knees, close enough that Sam has to tip his head all the way back against the chair-back to watch his face. "Been waiting for you," Dean says again, meaningfully, and Sam's hands do what they know how to do—ah, thank god—finding the hem of the skirt, and rucking it up. His fingers touch Dean's bare thigh, over the knee, and drag up slow, and Dean sees when Sam gets what he's _not_ feeling, because Sam's eyes go dark and wide and his hands slip around to the back of Dean's thighs, groping where Dean's so silky-bare, and he sits up straight and breathes out hot up at Dean's face, his expression so turned on that Dean wobbles and has to grab Sam's shoulders. "Jeez, Sammy," he says, inane.

"You shaved?" Sam says, pointlessly because they both know he did. He sits forward, drags his hands up from Dean's calves, feeling the soft of it. "God, that's—" he says, slicking his hands up the bare skin from the back of Dean's knees to the back of his thighs to his ass, and there his hands pause, and spread, and his thumbs drag slow over the silk-soft of the fabric, and Dean squeezes his eyes tight-shut hard enough that afterimages spin slowly past his eyes, and Sam says, "Oh," like it's to himself, and then says, in a different kind of voice, "Lift your skirt."

Not nicey-nice Sam. Not asking. Dean doesn't open his eyes and reaches down, gathering up the folds of it in a heavy slick handhold that he drags up to his waist, and hears the breath go out of Sam in a gust. "Jesus, Dean," Sam says, and Dean tips his head back on his shoulders, nearly dizzy. "Panties?"

"Yeah," Dean says, airless. Yeah. Yeah, that's what they are. Panties, in that plum-dark purple he'd liked so much, cut so they'd fit his hips and his ass and his dick, too, although it's heavy-thick enough right now that he can feel himself swelling out the front. Sam touches there—slips his fingers around and trails over the silky-feeling stretch of them, and Dean pushes his hips forward, can't help it. There's a bow, at the front, and Sam touches that too, and the inch of bare skin revealed between the panties and where Dean's holding his skirt all bunched up.

"Show me the back," Sam says. Dean heaves air in and turns around, Sam's hands slipping over his thighs—he stoops awkwardly, catching the dangling folds of the skirt—and holding the whole thing around his waist Sam says _fuck_ and Dean—yeah—yeah, he knows—because other than the little bow and the color the panties are pretty boring, from the front, but at the back they're sheer, enough that when Dean held them in his hand he could see every finger through the breathlessly fine mesh, and now Sam can _certainly_ see his ass, see the crack of it, the dark where, god, they both want Sam to be, don't they? God, Dean wants him—

"That's so pretty," Sam says, and Dean drops his head between his shoulders and pants, shoulders heaving. His eyes open but he can't see anything beyond the voluminous gathered green of his skirt, and then all that's gone because Sam's palming his ass with both hands, squeezing through the panties.

"You made yourself all pretty," Sam says. Rewording, slower. "For me. Huh? Look at this ass—that's all for me, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Dean says, dumb. He arches his hips back and Sam grips harder and then spreads him, as much as he can.

"Yeah," Sam agrees. "All soft, pretty." His thumbs dig into Dean's inner thighs and his fingertips skim under the edge of elastic, feeling Dean's bare ass. "My—my girl," he says, and Dean takes a thin sharp breath and feels something in his spine go loose, and Sam grips his hips and says, while Dean's balancing with one arm still holding his skirt tight and out of way and the other on his uncertain knee, "My little wife. Waiting for me, all ready. Wanting to get fucked. Right?"

"Fuck," Dean says, rough, and then, dragging in air—"Yeah, Sammy—yeah, come on—"

"Jesus, Dean," Sam says, quick and hot, and scrabbles from the waist of the panties—yanks them down, right to Dean's thighs—the front cutting in, where Dean's dick is straining out the front of the fabric—and Sam's fingers find his asshole and find it wet and slick and when he says _what_ Dean says, frantic—"I'm ready, I'm ready, I—" and Sam says, "Jesus!" again, his legs spreading, and Dean backs up and reaches and there's an unzipping sound, a fumble, and there's—oh god, Sam's dick—and Dean grips it and Sam holds his waist and holds the skirt out of the way too and Dean sits and rubs Sam against himself and then Sam—ah, ah—blooms inside, the fat head splitting where Dean's been closed tight for the hours of waiting around, but sliding easy on that oil—and Sam curses and wraps his arm around Dean's middle and Dean tips back, sinks back, his back hitting Sam's chest and his whole body sliding, slipping, working its way down, rippling and open and finding Sam, Sam—home, what he'd wanted all day, here at last.

He feels it, for a few seconds, when he's seated. Sam presses his face against Dean's shoulder through the t-shirt, gripping Dean's waist, and Dean holds his arm and breathes. Split open, parted. He shifts his hips and Sam grips him tighter, says, "Wait," and Dean waits, settles his heels on the ground and his hands on Sam's knees on the outside of his own knees, and breathes through it, content.

A pause, while they both throb. Sam's arm slips away from his middle and hands ruck up his skirt again, pin it up high—a thumb, dragging at the bunched silky waist of his panties, where they're dragged out of the way, holding his balls tight and high. Sam's forehead, against his back. "How does it feel?" Sam says, again.

"Full," Dean says, truthful. His voice sounds thick. He shifts and lets his head dip, feeling the whole thick intrusion from the base of his spine to his brainpan. "God, Sammy. Full, you're so—"

"Make it feel good," Sam says, interrupting, and so Dean groans and sets his feet and gets his palms on Sam's knees and does—lifting his ass and sinking it down again, making himself part sticky-open and wet on how goddamn fucking _thick_ Sam is.

Length is secondary, though Sam's got enough of that to go around, too—it's this wild world-ending girth that Dean squirms his ass back onto. Loosening up, bit by bit. Making it—ah—good. He picks up the pace, rocking, leaning forward, feeling Sam's thumb slip down into the split valley of his ass, down the smooth skin, where he's open, open, and oh—oh—

"God, that's pretty," Sam says, and Dean groans because—jesus, Sam's just—looking, right there. And in the mood to talk—fuck—"All pink for me, huh? All red. God. So good, such a good—good girl. All ready for me, soft inside. Ready for when I got home, right?"

Dean nods, his head jerking. Ah, jesus—Sam inside, thick and pulsing. Here he was—"Got myself all pretty," he says, goading, and Sam grips his hips in both hands and the skirt swirls down but Sam hauls him back, helping the ride, making it sharp and sweet. Fuck. "Sammy, I—I went and got—something special—"

"Yeah, you did," Sam says, easy praise, and Dean groans and works his hips in the best rolling rhythm, his dick aching and trapped in silk, Sam's fingers so tight on his skin they hurt. "God, baby—so good for me, aren't you. In your pretty dress, and your panties."

Dean moans, his thighs shuddering—jesus, he's close already—and Sam wraps an arm around his middle and shoves up—oh, stands—staggering them both forward until Dean's hands catch against the edge of the library table and then Sam has leverage, Sam's hands on his hips under the skirt and his fingers tangling in the waistband of the bunched-up panties and his dick, his dick, oh _fuck_ shoving in, a fast selfish rocking, harder than Dean could go riding, and Dean sinks down to his elbows on the table and clutches at the shining wood with his sweaty fingers and lets the world bob shaking in between each rough slam inside, Sam's dick reaching up deep and thick, dragging in all the best ways, this angle making each thrust good, good, oh fuck fucking good—Dean sucks in air and it sounds like a sob and Sam groans and says soft like someone else might hear _that okay?_ and he says, softer, _baby,_ and Dean nods helpless and spreads his legs and Sam leans over his back, plants a hand on the table somewhere and keeps his skirt up high and rails him, just rails him, humping in and making Dean's head spin with how much it's good, how much he wants it, how much and how desperately he needed—

"Tell me—" Dean says, to the safe dark between his clenched sweaty fists, his heart pounding so thick in his throat he can barely get a word out. "Tell me, Sammy—tell me—"

Sam's hips tip and his dick saws in, thick and sore and dragging all over all Dean's good spots, making his stomach molten, tight, aching—and he leans in closer, and says against the back of Dean's ear, "I can't—jesus, Dean—you're so hot, baby, you're so good, letting me fuck you like this, right here, in your skirt and your pretty little panties—"

Dean comes, lurching, his legs trying to give up. Sam curses, nails him harder while Dean's brain is dripping out his ear—his body rippling, his dick pulsing and swelling and creaming up the inside of his—his panties, that Sam likes and Sam thinks he's pretty in—he grips the table and groans out how insane it feels, and while he's still shaking and his thighs are going weak Sam catches him around the hips, a crumple of silk, and keeps him up long enough with the thick slap of their skin together that Sam can come, too, and Dean heaves in air and reaches out for the far edge of the table to get something to wrap his hand around and feels, eyes closed, how Sam's hips crush up against his ass, and there's that flex inside, and—he can't feel any slicker than he already does but oh, oh, Sammy's putting it inside him, like he really was—like he _is_ —some little sweet wife, taking his jizz like he ought to, and he flushes darker and puts his hot face against the table where it's already fogged up with his panting and doesn't want to move. Ever.

Until his hips hurt, from how the bones are getting crushed up against the edge of the table. Sam's slumped over him, heavy on his back, and that feels good but—"I'm gonna suffocate," Dean says, against the table, and Sam grunts and then—slowly—lifts his torso, like a falling redwood in reverse. Dean lifts up on his elbows, taking a deep breath. It feels like the first full one in a while.

Sam's hands drag up his back, under the t-shirt, through the slick of sweat. "Jesus," he says, quietly, and Dean agrees. Yeah. That was the good kind of nasty sex. Sam's hands slide back down, and ruck the heavy folds of the skirt out of the way, and Dean's not totally insane for it anymore and so it's less hot-making and more completely embarrassing, how Sam's—shit, Sam—just looking, apparently, between them. "Ready?" Sam says, and Dean nods, and Sam pulls out very careful, slow, because of how when he yanks out fast Dean wants to turn around and punch him—and has, once or twice. Except this time, when Dean clenches to stop himself spilling, Sam's thumb slips down over his hole where it's all sore-soft and slick, and while Dean's still trying to keep his breath over that, Sam's hands go down, and tug, and then—his panties, pulled up, back into place, like it's for modesty. Like there's modesty, in these.

"Sammy," Dean says, but Sam shushes him, and pulls at his waist, and somehow in the next second Dean finds himself—back in Sam's lap, tugged in close in the armchair, his skirt floating down around their knees. He turns his head, lifts, and Sam's—there, and Sam kisses him again, finally—first time in too long, as far as Dean's concerned—and he turns, swinging his leg over the arm of the chair, and Sam holds him close and cups his head and his hip and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

Dean's spinning, when Sam's lips pull away. His mouth feels hot and full and he's got his fingers curled against Sam's throat and it all feels so good that he just keeps his eyes closed and enjoys it. Sweat and all, dripping and all. His dick's feeling swollen, again, even trapped and wet as it is. Sam's fingers slip over his ear, trail down his stubble to his lower lip. Drop down, and pull his skirt up out of the way, and feel the long bare stretch of his leg. Curl under his knee, stroking there.

"So," Sam says. "Pretty, huh."

Careful, again. His thumb slips over Dean's thigh. Dean shrugs one shoulder and arches his back, feeling decadent. "Sometimes," he says. "That a problem?"

"Not for me," Sam says, and when Dean opens one eye to check Sam's—looking at him. Goofy-long hair damp at his temples from sweat, and his mouth barely curled, and his eyes—

"You got hotter for it than I thought," Dean says, grinning. Ignoring how his chest has ballooned warm. "You like that, Sammy? Your little wife, making your dinner?"

Sam huffs and pinches the back of his thigh, though lightly. "Kinda sexist, you know," he says, but the color's high in his cheeks and, yeah, he's into it. Dean pops his eyebrows high, smug, and Sam's eyes are soft, soft, killing him with how soft, with how he's looking at Dean like Dean's a known quantity, like he'd be okay with Dean being the thing he saw every morning and every night.

"You're into it," Dean says, sure, and Sam sighs and rolls his eyes, and Dean thinks—god, the other panties he bought—and maybe Sam might've gone for the garters—for more—and then he thinks—"Ah, fuck, the lasagna," and scrambles to his feet with Sam saying, "What?" but he runs down to the kitchen, even with his legs not quite sure they're ready to hold his weight, and there's a little smoke coming from the oven but when he wrenches it open it's just because some cheese has bubbled over and is charring to a crisp there on the floor, and he sighs relief and pulls it out to sit on the counter and then sinks his head onto his folded arms and laughs, tired and kinda drunk and thinking, jesus, this is home. Home, where the Sam is. Ovens and closets and stocked booze cabinets and all, and when Sam comes into the kitchen with his jeans zipped up saying, "What's on fire?", Dean says, "Shut up," glad, and stands up, and serves Sam his dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/633288001724743680/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-an-anonymous-reader)
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


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